The Chronicles of a Bad Girl’s Demise
by SilentlyRead
Summary: Every bad girl has a story to tell, but it just takes one life-altering event that turns her life upside down, before she dishes out the dirt.


AN:/ I wrote this story for a fanfiction challenge about two years ago and since that challenge it has been collecting dust on my desktop. Upon my rediscovery of it today, I decided to post it on this account to share with everyone. This one-shot refers to past events, but it is also AU.

Disclaimer: I do not own any of the characters nor am I affiliated with WB, CW or Mark Schwann. I merely subject Mark Schwann's characters to the actions I desire.

**The Chronicles of a Bad Girl's Demise**

Dear Readers,

Lately I've been getting so many letters in regards to my self-confidence, gratitude expressed on my behalf for my expertise, and declaring me their role model. As sweet as your letters come, I cannot help but think I cannot accept the praises that I receive. In exchange for your glowing responses, you should learn how I got this far.

Believe me when I say, I'm no angel; I was never the good girl, rather I was your regular wild party girl out of control. I had my many indulgences, ranging from Jack Daniels to John Doe. Okay, so maybe you could throw in a credit card, which bought my way to happiness. I was one of the rich and privileged, you know the ones whose Mommy and Daddy tossed them money to pacify the fact they were never around.

Forward on, you are subjected to the chronicles of a bad girl's demise.

Let's start from the beginning, and by beginning I don't mean the crap starting with my childhood, because really that's just filler that leads up to the beginning. No the true beginning, starts at sixteen. The age of sixteen is when freedom starts to pour in; you can just feel the close proximity of complete and absolute freedom. Only two years away from eighteen, when the last shackle unlocks, leaving you free. At least that's the way it was supposed to be.

_I sat at the back of the classroom, tapping my newly manicured nails on the desk. It has become my way to express my source of annoyance, in hopes to reach the attention of my best friend. I look slightly over my shoulder to the left, no success, Peyton has become too occupied with her most recent doodle—err sketches as she prefers_. _ I look to the front of the class, just in time to tune in Mrs. Benning._

"_I have graded your essays on your assigned W.H. Auden poem, and I have to say how amazed at the depths some of you went to. Although there are others who I am concerned at your lack of effort to dig deep and scratch beyond the surface."_

_I swear while Mrs. Benning rattled her lengthy disappointment lecture like always, there was a glint in her eyes, which hints I'm one of slacking few. I watched her go up and down the rows of desks; I waited eagerly for my paper. Not because I cared about my grade, but I wanted to make a dash and run once the bell rang. As Mrs. Benning approached my desk she made a turn left on to the next row. _

_I became extremely annoyed and frustrated. She passed me on purpose; I didn't care if I got my essay back on some dead guy's fruity poems. I was leaving when the bell rang. _

_Just as the minute hand reached the twelve, the bell sounded, but before I could get up, Mrs. Benning put her hand on my desk and said, "Miss Davis, stay after class, we're going to have a little chat."_

_I was seething with anger. 'That old senile hag, has it coming'. I flashed my charming smile to my classmates who overheard the exchange, and gave a nod to Peyton, signaling to wait for me. Apparently, Mrs. Benning had other plans in mind._

"_Miss Sawyer, I need to speak to Miss Davis confidentiality, please wait outside of the classroom."_

_I watch Peyton turn to me with an apologetic nod as she turned the knob of the door leading to the very exit I so desperately wished for._

_I watched as she wrinkled her face and sighed, then she proceeded, "Miss Davis I am concerned about your dipping grade in class. Brooke dear," I cringed at her attempt of an endearment, I knew where this was going. _

"_You have so much unaccounted talent, I know if you just applied yourself you could do better…" _

_And she just prattled on with her delusions of Brooke Davis becoming the next Tutorgirl, but it was like everything became 'blah, blah, blah' to my ears. Finally Mrs. Benning handed me my essay, with a big fat F+ in red ink. _

'_Oh like the plus really makes a difference, I mean, essentially it's saying I failed well.' I rolled my eyes when I took another glance at my marked paper, only for her shrill voice to shatter my thoughts._

"_Brooke, I'm giving you until the end of the year to re-read W.H. Auden's "At The Party" and to write an essay about Auden's message and how it applies to your life. I assigned you this poem with you in mind, just take your time to read and understand it." _

'_Doesn't she realize I don't give a damn about that shit?' With that note I stuffed the paper in my book bag, and speeded outside the classroom, where I groaned to Peyton._

"_You know she cares Brooke?" And with that smirk, taught by the best (yes me), Peyton continued, "she's just trying to look out for you, make sure you actually __**pass**__ her class."_

"_P. Sawyer, I really don't care what the youth impaired has to say, and I think it's time we scope out some boys."_

_------_

So earlier in this letter I may have misled you into thinking I dated John Does, but by that I didn't mean the average boy, no that wasn't for Brooke Davis, instead I went for the elite. For me it had always been about the naughty boys or the hot athletes. The year I was sixteen everyone anticipated me going after Lucas Scott, Nathan's bastard brother who just joined the Varsity team. It was the latest scandal, but seriously I was getting tired of high school boys. I wanted something more, I wanted a bigger thrill; I just needed to have some fun. So this how I met Chris Keller, some might say, he was my ultimate match—ego-to-ego, self-absorbed to self-absorbed and smirk-to-smirk.

I became enraptured with Chris, not only was he older, but he had a confidence I've seen no other guy ooze with ease. I was the envy of the rest of the squad, oh that's right I didn't mention, I was your regular cheerleading captain. I had a guy full of charm, out of high school and not to mention a musician. Oh yes I had a brief, but rewarding fling with a musician on the road to becoming a rockstar, although it didn't take long for the music to stop.

_I was standing in the bathroom admiring my hair and face, thinking 'damn I'm utterly gorgeous.' I pouted my lips a little and reapplied my lip-gloss, when Peyton's voice broke me out of my reverie. _

"_Brooke, let's go. I'm tired of waiting around, while you go through self-appreciation mode."_

"_You gotta admit, I look hot," I added with a wink. Instead of receiving my usual reassurance, Peyton rolled her eyes._

"_As always," she said sarcastically, "now let's go, or I'm taking off without you."_

_I thought to myself 'typical Peyton pms', but then I had to admit, I'm not quite the sunshine girl when it's my turn. I made Bevin cry the last time I had my period. Oh well, so I can be the regular—crap, that was seven weeks ago._

_------_

When any woman is not anticipating a child, the absence of her monthly visitor becomes somewhat of an omen, but to a sixteen-year-old girl it's almost the end. Now, I'm not about to say some cliché how my best friend was beside my side when I took that test, which determined the course of my future. To be honest, I never said a word to anyone—instead I went alone to a store a couple of towns over, and took that test in the store bathroom.

I remembered how my mind raced as I waited to see the results of the test, it seemed like every second was too long. Finally my phone told me, I had waited long enough. I took in a deep breath, closed my eyes, and then reopened them as I shifted my glance toward the stick. Pink. Pink. That is all my mind could register, it was pink, meaning: I was pregnant.

To make sure that, it wasn't a false positive-or rather in hopes the inaccuracies of the store bought test—I went to the doctors. Unfortunately the doctors confirmed what I was dreading to hear, the truth of the matter I was reaching seven weeks pregnant. That afternoon I struggled with what I wanted.

_What option do I take? I knew supposedly I had three options, abortion or adoption or become a mother. I did not want to make a decision; I wasn't supposed to make this decision. This wasn't supposed to happen to me. _

I withdrew from my friends, school life, cheerleading—I didn't breathe a word to anyone about the condition I was in. I needed to sort it all out, I guess a part of me thought if I did not mention it, then the pregnancy could just disappear, fade away. It changed in the course of one afternoon.

"_Brooke, I bought you a dress, you shall make an appearance at our Christmas cocktail party," my mother ordered curtly._

_I took the dress with ease, because I knew my role as the beautiful trophy daughter. As I slipped into the dress, I slowly tried to pull up the zipper, but it was resisting me. I tried to hold my breath and I still couldn't get the zipper to go up, I mean it just had to. I couldn't be showing already._

_My mother has never been the patient kind. She expected things done when it fitted her liking—she did not like to wait. She rushed through my room with her favorite weapon._

"_Brooke Penelope Davis, what is taking you so long for god sake? The party will not be held up in your account." I noticed her eyes landed on my zipper, and with a snare she replied, "tomorrow you go on a diet, we'll get your trainer you had from your pudgy days."_

_I couldn't handle it, I snapped. "I'm pregnant." My mommy dearest stared at me in disbelief and shook her head, as to erase the truth._

"_You shall stay in your room for the night, I cannot deal with your nonsense," with that she flittered out of the room._

I had heard my parents hushed voices that night. They never asked or consulted me about what I wanted; all plans were made for me. That night I realized, all the freedom I was on the verge of receiving was taken away in a flash. The next morning, I both felt and saw their disappointment. Their eyes clearly said, I was a tramp, a trollop, a slut—for all that mattered to them I might as well be a prostitute.

That morning my parents told me they were moving to California and that everyone in Tree Hill were to think I'm accompanying them there. I started to think maybe a fresh start with my parents elsewhere might not be so bad, but they soon made it apparent that the truth was I was being sent to live with my aunt Shannon.

So I left Tree Hill. Even my best friend believed that I was moving to California, she tried to plead with me to stay, but I told her I did not have an option. Which was true, I didn't have a choice; I made mine a long time ago. I departed without so much of a word where to be reached—I figured it would be better if I severed all contacts.

_------_

Let me tell you this, my aunt Shannon is a little eccentric—or I would say off her rocker. She lived in this small cabin, in a tiny town outside of Lake Tahoe. I mean, if you could even call it a town. I remember the drive from the Reno airport to Everfield, Nevada. Anyway, like I said, my first impression of my aunt Shannon was she was plain kooky, I mean, the woman talks to her plants when she waters them. That's not normal.

_I approached the front steps of my new home; I trailed behind my aunt Shannon. She was chattering away about my stay here and how she thought it'd be a good experience for me. I followed her into the house and she showed me to my room, which was basically an attic loft type thing. 'Can you say creepy?' As I plunked my stuff down Shannon handed me a present, which of course like all gifts I excitedly opened it. My face dropped as I pulled out a leather bound book, 'gee, just what I always wanted. Not!'_

"_Brooke, when I was sixteen it was a major stand-point in my life, just like it's in yours. I know life is going to be tough for you, and I thought you might need an outlet to express yourself. I hope you find use out of this journal."_

_I watched my aunt go and found my hands stroking the soft leather of the book. I looked down at it, and I remember someone once said, "it's the good girls who keep diaries, the bad girls just never have time." And I have to say I find that so very true. I mean, I really rather live my life then sit around writing about it. I don't have the time to write. I peer at my reflection in the mirror, and see my once petite size rounding a bit at the belly. 'So okay, maybe I do have time, but I'm not going to call it a diary. And no way in hell am I going to say Dear Diary'._

Remember how I said my aunt had her oddities, well I forgot to mention which one was the biggest of all—she didn't own a television. All these peculiarities of my aunts, completely explain why my mother acts like she is an only child; I don't think many people would be lining up to claim relations to Shannon. At first I just tried to play music, but then my aunt tried to get me involved with her garden—which I opted out for another choice. Actually doing schoolwork, I half expected the apocalypse to occur any minute now—you know, swallow me whole. Well it didn't happen, but when you have an aunt who insists home schooling so you can get a GED while preggers, and to not acknowledge high forms of entertainment, you think to yourself; okay so maybe reading shouldn't be so bad.

As ironies have in this world, the first book I had to open up and stumble upon was a collection of W.H. Auden's poems. So I guess Mrs. Benning will get her long awaited essay on "At the Party." I have to admit, after reading that poem, I do get the reasons why I was assigned that particular poem; it almost in a way mirrored my life in Tree Hill, yet I never understood that then.

_------_

So months past, and I continued to write in my spare time. I never would have thought I would have become a writer, that was what Haley or Lucas would have done. I mean it's something nerds do, not the pretty and privileged. Okay, so my hormones were crazy then, and I would sometimes resent writing, but it beat the hell out of studying math or science. Let's just say numbers are so not my foray.

Oh, and another thing is, who the hell lets a hormone depressed seventeen year old choose a baby name? Well, apparently most people. Because once the time came where my aunt rushed me to the hospital, with me cursing the whole way there of course, I named my daughter: Clara Emily Davis. Which if you didn't know, Clara means sad. Okay, I admit it's probably not the nicest thing to burden your child with, but what the hell! I was a damn seventeen year old who was a little too sad for her own good. Oh, and Emily means ambition or to strive, I guess I just picked that on the likes that it sounded nice, plus maybe she will strive for more than what I ever did.

_I'm so tired of every single question and every single form. I just want to sleep, hello don't they realize I was in labor for 19 hours, I really, really just want to sleep. I watch another nurse enter and I just wanted to shout, 'leave me alone!' Oh well, another time._

"_Ms. Davis, we have another form to leave you, in regards to your daughter, it needs to be completed soon for the birth certificate."_

_So I grabbed the pen and started filling out the blanks. Mother's name: __Brooke Penelope Davis__. Well that's easy. Next question. Father's name:__. I stared at the blank below. There's no question about it, I knew who the father was, and it was simple as that. Chris Keller was all I had to add to the blank, but I couldn't help but wonder do I tell him ever? Do I just leave it ignored and unattended? Will the hospital let me? It was just a fling; I don't even know what the hell is his middle name. Before I could know what I was doing, I started filling it in __Chris Keller__. I guess it doesn't hurt to tell him a year or three later, I'll think about it tomorrow._

I eventually did tell him a few years later, and he was accepting of it, after the initial disbelief and shock. I would have thought he wouldn't believe it, but I guess not only had I grown in those years, so had he. Also he had always taken his music with the utmost responsibility, I should have figured he would do the same regarding his life and possible children. We didn't become one of those sappy families who reunite because of a child, I mean get realistic—that's not how life swings. No, we worked out an agreement, Chris pays child support, and when he's ever playing concerts near the area, he stops by and takes her out for a while. I know he still loves the ladies, and as long as he keeps them away while he's with Clara, I'm fine with letting him see her. He's still cocky when he wants to; I think he finds it humorous. So her dad isn't perfect, but she deserves to have one in her life.

_------_

Anyway I must admit I digressed a bit, so back to the time of Clara's birth. When I took Clara home from the hospital, I was never really sure what to do. I took care of her, but I felt a void—I couldn't feel a motherly instinct. Sure I've heard once they grab your hand, you just know you're ready. Well I sure as hell didn't feel that at first. I freaked out, I was a seventeen-year-old girl who took home a baby, and I felt more like a crappy babysitter than a mother. Believe me I did feel guilty, but there is no way to force upon maternal instincts, they come when they want to, and believe me it took awhile for it to happen. I would spend days, just trying to remember my life at Tree Hill and what would have happened, if none of this ever happened.

One day, two months later while Clara was sleeping, I looked at the calendar, and realized tomorrow would be the anniversary of Peyton's Mom's death. I told myself she shouldn't be alone, and that I should just go back and be needed and make an appearance. I mean hell I had my figure, who would suspect a thing. See I didn't know this then, but I was depressed, and in a way I think I was looking forward to being needed, because I thought that was what I wanted, but realities have a way of slapping you in the face.

Before I knew it, I was standing at the gate, waiting to hand my ticket to board the plane that would take me to Tree Hill, North Carolina. Let me assure you the flight is a few hours and I've never been a fan of flying. As I gripped the armrest, my mind began to drift.

_It's not wrong to just take off and leave like this. I mean I'm not really leaving. I mean she won't ever know I just took off… I just need a vacation. That's all this is, just a vacation. Re-seeing familiar sights see my old best friend._

After I landed, I rented a car and pulled into town. Believe me when I say, so much can change in the course of seven to eight months. Stranger sights haven't been seen, as when I drove past Karen's Café, and saw Nathan, Mr. All-star, with Haley the biggest tutorgirl at Tree Hill; and let's say they looked a little bit chummy. I pulled up in front of Peyton's house. A familiar sight, I knocked on the door, no answer—I reached for the knob, expecting her to be tucked away in her room listening to music, but instead it was locked.

_Where else could P. Sawyer be? I looked at my watch, it was still early—and for once in all the history I've known her, she's never locked her door. I scanned the street, okay so her car's not here, so she obviously went somewhere else. Where? 'Oh! The cemetery, of course'. _

As I pulled into the cemetery grounds, I spotted Peyton's car. So I tried to find the route to her mother's grave, when I approached the hill above her mom's grave, my eyes saw a new sight. Peyton was wrapped in the arms of a guy, softly crying. I squinted my eyes to see who it was—Jake Jagielski. In that instant, I knew I wasn't needed anymore, Peyton found solace in waiting arms—someone who was there for her when I was not.

_I sunk to the ground knowing, my time here will make no difference. Sure I might be welcomed with open arms, but I'm not needed. Nobody needs me, there is not one person that needs me._ _My mind flashed to Clara, who is just a helpless little creature, who does need someone. A person to care for her, provide for her and be there for her. She's so little she can't do anything herself. Clara needs me and—and I need her. I need someone to need me_.

With that I returned home to my daughter, and took care of her. Yes I did struggle, and my aunt Shannon did help. Even after my realization, I still didn't get a surge of maternal instinct, but I did feel it start to grow. As time past, from months to years, I eventually became more in touch with the loving maternal instinct. I have to say; I think for every parent, it's not easy to adjust to switching roles in life. I still don't believe people when they say you just know you're a father or a mother, when you first see the child; a true parent's feeling grows and matures just as their child does.

I give advice, or rather write my opinions and offer solutions for an advice column to help people not make the same mistake as I did. I also know, while yes, you can learn from other's mistakes, nobody should be deprived of a journey—one that starts with the demise of a past life. I wish my daughter a better life than me, but I wouldn't wish her any less of a journey as I've experienced. I want her to go out and live her life, and not be just another puppet—but to be herself, to discover herself. So all that I ask of you, is to look for yourself, because truly the answer to your problems never surface, unless you know yourself.

I think back to what Peyton once told me, "Six billion people in the world, six billion souls—sometimes all you need is one." Which when I first heard that, I thought she was being dramatic, but now as I look back on it, I know it's true. It's true it's not a guy that you necessarily need, or a child—most people spend their lives searching for that one soul, but the trick to finding it—is to realize that one soul you need is you.

Yours,

Brooke P. Davis


End file.
